


the glory of a rainbow

by lostinsanity



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Colours, Fluff, How Do I Tag, M/M, Soulmates, but liam and zayn arent even actual characters, i'm sorry i'm actually complete garbage, idk how to tag i've pretty much accepted it by now, smoothies, that tag is irrelevant, the title is from a barnum song in case you didn't know, this has mentions of ziam, this is a work of trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:52:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1602563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinsanity/pseuds/lostinsanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry lives in a black and white world. Until he meets Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the glory of a rainbow

**Author's Note:**

> this is completely unbeta'd so i apologise deeply for most of my literary incompetence.
> 
> this is based off of
> 
> [this](https://twitter.com/nibblesharry/status/463076347137376256)
> 
> and it's taken me forever to do it but describing a colour is like trying to define your emotions.

Harry’s never known colour. 

When he was very young, he always thought that black and white and colour were the same thing. He’d heard the word ‘colour’ a couple times, from his older sister and his mum. He understood that colour gave things life, but he didn’t realize that there’s a difference between that and what he’s always seen til he got a bit older. 

There’s always been myths about it. They’ve all got strange names--red, blue, green, yellow. He’s read stories online about people who’ve suddenly begun to see colour once they’ve met someone special. No one can see colour once they’re born. Everyone sees the same as he does. But according to legends, rumours passed along on the schoolgrounds, if you kiss someone you really love, you’ll finally be able to see colours. He’s never seen it happen in real life, of course. So he always turns a deaf ear to the notion of colour. He just can’t believe in something that he can’t  see. 

In primary school, Harry reads a poem about the colours of the sky. The sun rises in hues of purple and pink, shines in a bright blue, and sets with deep oranges and reds. He learns that colours are pigments, and then, later, that colours are light rays that are caught by the eyes and interpreted by the brain. His class has discussions about the connection between colours and happiness. 

He thinks it’s all overrated. Harry doesn’t believe that a collection of pigments, or light rays, or whatever it is, should have any ruling over how happy he is. He’s happy just seeing black and white, and he doesn’t need colour to change that. He doesn’t need pink, or orange, or purple, or whatever to be happy. Or to prove his own happiness.  

Colour is unnecessary in life. That’s all he’s ever thought. Everything is simple without it--there’s no worrying about if your clothes will complement, or if the colour you’ve purchased a gift in for someone else is absolutely hideous, or if your jumper is the exact same shade as your jeans. Harry lives in black, white, and shades of grey, and he’s never found a problem with it. He finds beauty in monotone, and he enjoys it.

~

When Harry is thirteen, something changes. 

He’s been friends with Niall as long as he can remember, and there’ve been many a conversation with them seated on the bit of roof just outside Niall’s bedroom window, talking about what it would be like to see the night sky. 

“Stars are white, the sky is black, there’s nothing to see,” Harry argues. He’s always been stern in his belief. No one he knows can see colour, so why should he fantasize about what can’t happen anyway? 

Niall leans back against the light grey of his window frame. “I learned in science class that stars are all sorts of colours,” he retaliates. Harry ignores him and takes another sip of his root beer. “Blue, red, white, and yellow. Don’t you think it would be cool to see a rainbow sky?”

“Sure,” Harry mutters. “Except it won’t happen.” 

“Do you remember my cousin Liam?” Niall asks abruptly. 

Harry wrinkles his brows, confused. “Yeah, but--”

“When he met Zayn, he tells me the first thing he saw was the colour of the trees behind him.” Niall turns, looking at Harry. “He was just like us--just like everyone. Only saw everything in black and white. But then he met Zayn in some park or something and when he first saw him, the trees were… Blue?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, I think it’s green.”

Niall nods, and the conversation resumes, and Harry goes home, but the opinion he’s always had changes. What’s the difference between a rainbow and a range from black to white? 

He has to know.

It’s always there--the notion that it can’t be true, and even if it is, it can’t be relevant--but he devotes his time to learning what colour really looks like. He finds firsthand accounts of people meeting other people and suddenly seeing vibrance. He finds photographs that are supposedly in colour, but they all look the same to his bleary eyes. He stays up for days on end, trying and trying to learn what a colour looks like without seeing it.

He can’t find anything, so he dismisses the thought, and resumes his original opinion of colour not mattering. 

But somewhere, way in the back of his mind, he can’t stop mulling it around, and thinking that maybe, maybe he actually would like to see colour, at least once.

~

He finds the article one day at three in the morning when he’s stuffed full of cold medication and woke up at two to pee. He’s got a head cold and two tissues stuffed up his nostrils and he climbs into bed and pulls his laptop on top of his legs and searches. 

Harry gets through four or five pages of a Google search before a link jumps out at him, and he clicks on it. On the black and white page, he finds a long-written explanation for the legends that he’s been hearing about since he was seven years old. 

In short… you see colour when you find your soulmate.

Suddenly it hits him all at once--Niall’s cousin seeing colour when he met Zayn, the kids on the playground locking lips in a futile effort to find the right one and be able to see the blue of the sky, the correlation between colour and happiness. Harry suddenly feels a hollowness in his chest--he can’t see colours because he’s alone. He tries to tell himself that it has nothing to do with his happiness, like he has for the past fourteen years of his life.

But for some reason, he can’t stop feeling quite so empty.

~

As he grows older, everyone around Harry seems to be able to see colour. The girl who sits next to him in English class begins bringing pencils of all different shades of grey to class, and when Harry asks, she tells him joyfully that they’re coloured pencils. His partner in chemistry class starts writing down names of colours in the ‘observations’ section of their lab chart when they’re measuring chemical reactions. Harry feels himself deflate, and each time he takes the bus home or goes to the mall or the park or is somewhere, anywhere public, he searches the crowds for the person with the colourful aura pulsing around them.

When he enters high school, he’s left his small community, and people are all over, hung up on themselves and kissing behind the cars in the parking lot. Harry can’t help but feel jealous--all these people, everywhere, seeing colours, and he’s still left there in shades of grey.  

During the summer between his ninth and tenth years, Harry’s sitting in Niall’s backyard, sipping a dark grey glass of soda and staring up at a particularly lighter grey patch of sky that’s trapped between a cage of white clouds. Niall’s sitting in the mid-grey-shaded grass, leafing through some book he’s been reading for a while. The book’s covers are such a dark grey that they're nearly black, and the pages are just one shade darker than pure white. 

“Niall,” Harry mumbles, crossing one leg over the other and adjusting his hands behind his head. The white above him is shifting and the grey of the sky is widening. “I’ve got a question.” 

“Hmm?” Niall doesn’t look up, just continues looking at the book.

Harry shifts again. “Can you see colours?” 

Niall pauses, this time glancing up at Harry. “No,” he responds finally after squinting into the sun for a couple seconds. “Black and white. Just like always.” 

Harry feels just a bit better that he’s not the only person that’s still alone and hasn’t found a soulmate. But for some reason, he can’t stop mulling it around in his head, and he’s dreading something that he’s not sure will ever come. 

~

His reassurance doesn’t last long. Niall comes over Harry’s house absolutely glowing one day, rambling on and on about how the sky is so bright and the trees are so vivid and the flowers are something else all on their own. 

Harry smiles and laughs and congratulates him, but Niall’s greyscale in front of him, and he knows that Niall can see him in full Technicolor and there’s nothing he can do about it.

~

Harry is sixteen. Per his mum’s orders, he’s gotten a job at a bakery near his home. He doesn’t do much aside from pulling muffins out of a display box and depositing money into a register, but it pays a decent amount and it gives him something to do. Niall’s spending all of his time with Ellie now, and Harry’s sick of twiddling his thumbs in his bedroom and wishing a soulmate would just climb through his window and bring some colour into his life.

Quite literally.

Aside from tapping his fingers along his thigh and daydreaming, Harry spends most of his time each day sitting behind a counter starting at pastries that vary from powdery white to jet black. He doesn’t really understand why they call the black ones ‘brownies’ and why flour goes into the mixing bowl pure white and comes out of the oven a mid-grey, but he figures he’ll understand when--if--he ever gets that damned soulmate everyone else seems to find. 

It’s a rare warm day in spring when Barbara lets Harry out of work early. She tells him to go and enjoy the day, and he takes up his things, thanks her, and leaves. He plans to go home, to sit in bed and sulk a bit more, maybe call up Niall and third wheel with him and Ellie. But for some reason, something pushes him away from the turn that gets him to his road, and he heads down to the city centre. 

He’s not really sure what he’s going to do there. He’s got a bit of money in his pocket, maybe enough to buy himself a pack of gum or an ice cream cone, but nothing really to get here. The cobblestone beneath his feet is a dark grey and the sky is light, with no white clouds covering it. Harry’s starting to feel a bit of sweat beading at the back of his neck and looks across the centre and sees something that makes him smile. It’s that little smoothie store that he’s passed by a few times, waited for Niall to go into, but never visited himself.

With the hot sun pounding down on his dark grey, nearly black curls, Harry heads towards the shop, thinking that a smoothie really would hit the spot.

He doesn’t expect it to happen when it does.

He’s looking at the mid-grey tiles on the ground when he walks in, then pulls his wallet out of his jeans to count the cash he’s got in there. He’s imagining drinking a watermelon strawberry kiwi blend when he looks up and locks eyes with the boy standing behind the counter and the wind is knocked out of him.

His eyes--they aren’t black. Or white, or any shade of grey at all. They’re--Harry struggles to search his mind for the right word. His jaw falls a bit slack as he stares into this boy’s eyes. His eyes look like diving into a pool of water on a hot summer day. They look like laughter and the breeze, look like cool fruit and a cold glass of cola in his hand. 

Harry--

Harry’s seeing  colour. 

“Are you--” he utters, and the boy nods with disbelief.

“Your eyes look like rain smells,” the smoothie boy comments, and Harry almost feels like he’s going to cry. 

“I’m Harry,” he manages to choke out, “and I think you’re my soulmate.” 

“Louis.” He shakes his head--his hair looks like chocolate tastes--and smiles, laughs a bit. “I’m Louis. And I think so too.” 

Harry laughs and looks at the rest of Louis’ face. His skin is much like what the freshly-baked cupcakes back at the bakery taste and smell like. This toasted, golden colour that just makes him look warm everywhere. His lips are just a bit softer than what he would imagine to be a hot colour--maybe like a soft hug. He’s wearing an apron the same chocolate-type colour as his hair, and the shirt beneath just about matches his eyes. He stares at them deeper, trying to figure out the word.

It comes to him. Blue. They’re blue.

Harry looks around. Everything else is still grey around him. Only Louis is there, like an aura, bright and vivid against a lifeless background. He wonders when he’ll see the rest of the world the same way he sees Louis, and for a moment he’s scared--scared that it’s not going to work, that Louis isn’t really his soulmate, that everything he’d spent his whole life wishing for never was real.

Louis chuckles, breaking Harry from his reverie. “So, are you going to stare at me this whole time, or are you going to let me make you a smoothie?” 

“You’ve just met your soulmate,” Harry comments, leaning over on the counter, “and you’re asking him if he wants a smoothie?” He stares at the apple that’s in a bowl on the counter, willing its dark grey to come to life the same way Louis has. It’s not working. 

“It’s my job, Haz.” Harry grins at the natural nickname as Louis grabs the apple he’s been gazing at and tosses it in the air. “You didn’t come in here just to meet me. So. Pick a smoothie.” 

Harry grins, but he describes the smoothie he imagined when he was entering, and Louis winks as he goes to make it. He soon hands Harry a plastic cup with a smoothie that is near the shade of grey as the apple, but quite lighter, before he steps out from behind the counter. He’s shorter than Harry is, and that kind of makes Harry happy. Louis follows him to a little table--the shop is empty aside from the two of them, and Harry sort of thinks that that’s fate’s way of congratulating them--and they sit together.

“I hope this isn’t strange,” Louis begins, “but I’d just like to stare at your eyes for a little while.”

“It’s not strange. I feel the same.” Harry fits his lips around the straw of the smoothie--it’s dark grey, like the apple--and watches as Louis’ blue, oh, so blue, eyes rake over his features.

He brings his eyes back up to meet Harry’s. “It’s funny, how… How does this even work, anyway?” Harry shrugs, but doesn’t break the eye contact. “Can you only see me in colour, or is everything else colourful too?”

Harry feels like an anvil’s been lifted up off his chest.“No, it’s only you.” 

“How do we get the rest to change?” 

Harry sucks on the straw a bit. “Maybe we have to get to know each other. Maybe the colour thing is like--here’s your soulmate, but then you have to learn who each other are so that the rest of your world can change.”

“You should be a poet, Harry.” Louis winks again, and each time he closes them, Harry thinks his eyes get just a bit brighter. “Alright. I’m Louis William Tomlinson, I’m eighteen, my parents are divorced, I’ve got five sisters, I’m not attending uni until next year, I’m allergic to peanuts, and I really like the colour green, apparently.” He smiles, and Harry blushes, knowing that he must be talking about Harry’s eyes. “Anything?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Let me try. I’m Harry Edward Styles, I’m sixteen, I’ve got one sister and I work in a bakery.” 

Louis laughs, carding his hand through his hair. “That’s it? There’s bound to be more of you than just your name, age and profession.” He meets Harry’s eyes, ticking a brow. “I still see grey. So, there’s got to be more.” 

“I can't think of anything else,” Harry says. He feels almost as if he's let Louis down, like it’s his fault that he’ll never be able to see everything in the rainbow and never be able to enjoy it. He looks back at Lou, and his lips are set in an expectant grin. His eyes look almost like they're begging Harry, and their beautiful colour is making it even worse. 

“Alright, Harry.” Louis’ words snap Harry awake once again, and his teeth are white against the--Harry digs through his mind for the word--pink of his lips. “What a shame--my soulmate is nothing but Harry Edward Styles, who’s sixteen and works at a bakery. At least I know you can cook for me.” 

“Oh, god no. I can’t  cook-- I run the register.” 

The smirk that graces Louis’ face makes his eyes twinkle, and they seem to shine even brighter. “At least I know you can count for me.”

“Anyone can count.”

“They left you in charge of it, though, so I know you’re especially good.”

“Actually,” Harry contends, tipping his smoothie towards Louis, “I sort of failed maths this semester. Don’t tell my mum.” 

The smile on Louis’ face is sweet, and it warms Harry’s cheeks. “I wouldn’t in a million years--you’ve got no idea what I failed when I was still in school.”

“Damn.” Louis looks up for a moment at Harry’s grumbled response. “I always wanted to be a stay-at-home husband, I was kind of counting on you being smart.”

“I’m eighteen and work at a smoothie shop,” Louis reminds him. “I think fate picked you the wrong soulmate.”

Harry snorts, sucking on the dark grey straw until the lighter grey liquid is nearly gone from the clear plastic cup and he taps the empty plastic against the table. Louis is still the only thing set in vibrancy in front of him, and he can’t help but think that it’s because they don’t know each other well enough, and he wants to fix it. But it’s not because he wants to see the rest of the world in colour--it’s because he wants  Louis  to see the rest of the world in colour. There’s a feeling deep in his chest that’s pushing up towards the surface, and the longer he looks into Louis’ eyes, the colour of the scent of the ocean, the less he wants to see the shade of the sky and the more he wants Lou to see it himself. He feels light but he feels determined. He needs to fix this so that Louis can enjoy the vivid world that everyone else seems to be able to. 

“I didn’t believe in colour until I was thirteen,” Harry suddenly confesses, and he breaks his eyes from Louis’ to gaze at his name written in bubble letters on the nametag pinned to his shirt. Louis’ brows furrow, and the golden colour of his skin seems to radiate out more now. “I mean--I’d heard of the stories or whatever, I just didn’t believe them. I didn’t realise that everyone was brought up to expect to see colour when you fell in love--I thought everything was grey.” 

Louis looks down at Harry’s hands, clasped around the empty cup. “Weirdly enough,” he adds after a brief pause, placing his hands up on the table, “so did I.” 

Without any warning, there’s a strange feeling in Harry’s palm the second Louis’ hands make contact with the table. It’s almost like an itch, but a nice kind of itch. It tingles and feels almost magnetic, and by the way Louis’ brows are peaking up towards his hairline and his wonderfully blue eyes are widening, he feels it too. They both lift their hands up at the same time, and as the two bring them closer, there’s a blinding light that starts to form between their palms. At first it’s blue, the same colour of Louis’ eyes, but then another strange, bright colour joins in, and another, until their hands are just inches away from each other and there’s a bright white light from between them. When they touch, Harry has the incredible urge to close his eyes, and he does as their fingers twine together. There’s a wave of warmth that flows up though his hand and around his whole body.

He opens his eyes, and his breath is knocked right out of his chest.

There’s more--more colours. More for his thirsty eyes to take in. The pile of fruit on the counter is a menagerie of vibrance. The banana on the bottom looks like the sun shining on his face, and the apple is like sitting too close to the fire pit when it’s cold outside. His eyes dart around the rainbow world he’s suddenly plunged into and he meets Louis’ once again. He looks just as bewildered as Harry feels, but his bright eyes are smiling, and Harry feels really warm inside. He’s overwhelmed by the colours everywhere, the ones that remind him of heat and the ones that look like ice, the ones that look like the smell of citrus and the ones that are--like Louis described, the scent of rain. It’s strange, and it’s absurd, and Harry’s never felt like it ever before. 

And he never wants to lose this amazing new feeling of having colour in his world.

~

Once Harry can see colour, things begin to really change. The emptiness and loneliness he had always felt at the pit of his stomach is replaced with a warm, pleasant, tingly feeling. When he and Louis touch, a bright, colourful glow emits, whether it be from their tangled fingers or locked lips or just a simple knock of their knees together on the bus to and from home.

Harry looks at Louis every single day, and he still seems to jump out of the background. No matter what, everything around him is just as dim as if it were black and white and grey, just as it always has been. The sky is the colour of Louis’ eyes, and the sun glows on his hair to give it this golden hue that looks like a day at the beach feels, but Harry can’t help but put the brightness of Louis in front of the brightness of the sun. As the days pass from when Harry first met Louis, the colours just seem to twine together, complementing each other, and Harry looks into the mirror and stares at the green of his eyes and smiles at the fact that he and Louis have such happy eyes. And they’re happy together.

And Harry’s favourite thing is when they make love. In the dead of the night, it’s like he’s standing on the sun. The glow from each inch of where their skin meshes is bright and warm, like a bonfire beneath his skin and folded into the palms of a boy he just happened to run into. A boy who changed the way Harry’s world worked. Harry loves when Louis devotes his entire body to Harry, lets Harry work over him, inch by inch of splendid golden skin, and that beautiful white shine, composed of every colour in the rainbow, every conceivable colour that Harry can ever see just poured together until he can no longer see them distinctly. Harry  loves  Louis. Harry loves him with all his heart and soul.

~

Niall is freshly nineteen when Ellie passes away in a car accident.

Harry watches as his best friend falls apart. He’ll never see colour again.

~

There’s a cart full of groceries and Harry’s picking between a red box of rice and a yellow box of rice when it seems like someone’s begun flickering the lights behind his eyes. He drops the boxes of  rice on the floor because his fingers go slack--and he looks down at them.

They are no longer red and yellow. They are light and dark grey.

Harry’s heart just about stops for a moment, but he blinks, and the colour returns to him. Something tells him that the red and yellow of the boxes are no longer as vibrant as they were before, but he doesn’t pay any mind to it. He figures he’s tired, his mind is making things up for him. With his heart racing in his chest, Harry distractedly tosses one box of rice into the cart and continues on with the rest of his errands.

When he gets up to the register to checkout, it happens again. He blinks--everything is grey--he blinks again--the colour is back. But it’s dimming, and it’s dimming fast. He looks down at the box that was once bright red to find that it’s more a faded greyish dark pink, and the fresh green veggies he’d stocked up on look a sort of wilted colour, and the blue apron of the cashier is looking less cerulean and more cool, like rocks at the bottom of the river. 

Something is wrong, and he can feel it. There’s something hollow in his chest and the colour is seeping out of his life right before his eyes. He nods at the cashier apologetically and pushes the cart against the side of the register lane and runs out of the store, his hand reaching for his phone as fast as he can fumble around. 

He dial’s Louis’ number as if it’s his own. He’s got it memorised, at least.  It’s burning into his fingertips as the colours on his screen start to fade faster and faster and he suddenly feels as if  he’s going to throw up. He holds the phone to his head and it rings, again, and again, and again, and there’s no answer.

Harry’s vision sputters out once more, but this time, the colour is gone completely. 

He feels like he’s blind. He  is  blind. 

Harry knows in his gut that this isn’t him--this isn’t him that’s broken. He remembers Niall, his vision going black and white after Ellie’s death. Something’s happened, something’s happened to Louis, and he can feel it, he can feel the tragedy carving into Harry’s bones. His blood would run dark grey if it weren’t for Louis, and now the colour is gone, seeping out like he’s cut open his skin and let it all go. Louis is in trouble and he’s got no idea what to do. 

He flies home, drives as fast as he can without endangering himself. The absence of colour is throwing him off, making his hands tremble, his heart pound viciously inside his aching chest. Harry’s foot is heavy on the gas and the grey trees zip past him. The speed would normally make him happy, make him smile. He and Louis would go for rides with the windows down on long roads and just laugh with the wind in their hair. But this is different. And he’s terrified. 

If he can’t see colour, if he’s black and white… Finding a soulmate finally made him see colour. Losing one could easily take it all away.

He doesn’t want to think the words--Louis can’t be dead. Harry wouldn’t stand to live another moment in a colourless world without the boy he’s loved for nearly four years now. His chest feels tight and his eyes dart around on the road, but he can’t allow himself to get distracted. He can’t allow himself to believe that there’s any way Louis is not living, breathing, laughing and smiling right now, at this very second. He can’t. He can’t afford to. 

(Harry knows, deep inside, that there’s a dam ready to break inside of him, but he holds it back just long enough to keep the faith that Louis is alive, and maybe his perception of colour is just broken, maybe he’s just broken.)

Upon arriving to the loft he’s shared with Louis for two years, since he turned eighteen, he runs up the steps and throws open the doors and finds--

Nothing. It’s empty. 

Harry feels a shudder fly through him and his vision is suddenly flushed with a pale colour again. This renews his faith, and he heaves out a breath of relief. Louis is fucking  alive , Harry can see colour, Louis is alive. He wants to sob with relief, but--something is still wrong, still horribly wrong. So he goes to the only place he thinks to go--the hospital. 

“Louis Tomlinson,” he screams, bursting through the doors of the ER. There’s a hustle and bustle around everywhere, and the colours of the red flushed cheeks and the blue scrubs and the white tile are growing stronger with each blink. He finds the attending nurse. “Is there a Louis Tomlinson here? I haven’t--”

The nurse looks up at him. Her eyes are a dark brown, just about the same colour as Harry’s hair. “Yes, he’s right over there.”

Harry looks. Louis is there, seated up on a bed. His hair is ruffled and his feet are dangling off the side of the bed. His cheeks are pink and he’s breathing heavily, and the colour is returning back to Harry. Louis seems to glow the second Harry sees him.

“Louis,” Harry whimpers, and Louis’ head snaps up to meet him. His expression is almost embarrassed, sheepish. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

Louis chuckles, taking Harry’s hand in his. The warmth and glow from their touch soothes Harry’s nerves. “It’s hard to remember things you’re allergic to when you don’t have someone as responsible as a soulmate around to remind you.” He shrugs. “I stopped breathing. I had a craving for peanut butter.” 

Harry sobs a little, but it’s mixed with a laugh. “You stupid,  fucking  idiot,” he groans, but he grips each side of Louis’ face and rams his lips into Louis’. He can feel the glow, and he feels his heart racing ridiculously fast. “I thought you were fucking  dead,  you stupid--stupid--”

“I’m not dead, Harry,” Louis reminds him, “and I won’t be, for a while.” 

“Don’t ever do that again, you dumb twat,” Harry grumbles. “I love you way, way too much to lose you, okay?” 

Louis grins, and the edges of it touches the corners of the eyes, the very first colour Harry ever saw. “No more peanut butter for me, no more death scares for you.” 

“Let’s get you home.” Harry eases Louis off the bed. “You’re okay to go, right?” 

When he earns a nod from Louis, he kisses him again, reveling in the warmth between their lips. He pulls back and stares at Louis, at his eyes. Since the day they met, Harry’s learned many more words for many different shades of blue--teal, indigo, cerulean, cyan--but Louis’ eyes have always been the same turquoise as they were when he first gazed into them. 

Harry realises that he could see nothing but black and white ever again, as long as Louis’ eyes were still as clear and blue as the sky on a bright day. 


End file.
